Prologue: The Story
by Jaynesdingleberries
Summary: How It starts. Not a good descriptor, but what can you do?
1. Chapter 1

The Story is all that exists, winding as a great ribbon of light and shadow through the expanses of the universe. It is not stationary but flows as a boundless river throughout time and it carries with it all the whispers of myth and belief since the beginning; before the World of Men, before the ancient wanderings and insidious plots of the Sheelie Court, before even the angels sang their first hymns of thankfulness to their Creator, the Story was there.

It was the reverberation of the Word, resounding with the force of creation and remembrance until it held all of the known and unknown within it's endless borders. And even with all the magnificence that was the Story, it continued and grew and furthered itself as time began; and it _remembered_ everything for indeed it lived and breathed, not as a person, but as an entity of such might and expansive consciousness that perhaps only the Speaker of the Word could comprehend it in entirety.

But there are those who, in their miniscule lives, would devote themselves to the Story; in their humble caves at the borders of dead seas or in their great libraries and temples so vainly luxurious that they burned for sheer shame, in this world these lesser beings would take up their scratching quills, their stylus's, their glass inking pens and brushes, and attempt to recreate the Story on hide, clay, and parchment.

In flickering torchlight they would blind themselves as they read from crumbling tombs, and rewrite what they thought they found there in their own cramped scripts in their own tombs, which would then turn to dust and blow away on the winds of time.

These, they who call themselves scholars, are not but fools. It is creatures like these that belittle the Story, not make it clearer or greater; they are the one's who make such phrases such as "once upon a time" seem foolish. They make it symbolize myths, legends, things that could never have been, let alone be again. They are the ones who labor to end Dreams, which are an integral part of the Story; they cannot begin to understand the importance of imagination, of belief.

Without these the Story would cease. An end to Dreams would be the end of the world and more. But Dreams persist, imagination flourishes even in times of great cynicism and cold logic, when there is thought to be no room for either, a story will be told, beginning with an ancient phrase--

Once upon a time.

There is a reason that the Story oft begins anew with such a phrase, for indeed it had happened, once, upon a time; and as all things happen, so are they destined to renew themselves, to reoccur, for the circumstances to realign the characters caught in the never-ending web of the Story, and bring them back to the kernel, the truth, the heart of the tale. Thus the Story never ends.

Thus the Story is always beginning.

Thus Dreams never die, but are reborn.

And so shall we begin the Story; for though the Story does not start here, it has been here and it knows this place intimately, like a beloved child growing surer as the years pass, and here, the Story shall sing once again its beloved and true phrase: Once Upon A Time.


	2. 1 How It Began

Chapter One: The Beginning

Once upon a time there was a Fairy King. He was great, and perfectly formed in mind, will, and body. His magic was strong, and his heart filled with the beauty of vast his kingdom.

One day as he surveyed his lands the King realized that he was lonely, so he created others like himself, not as great, surely, for such greatness could never be remade, but fine and beautiful to look upon, if cold in their hearts and cruel in their eyes.

They were the Shee.

These became his devoted subjects; they served him and rushed to see that his every whim or yearning was fulfilled. Still he was burdened with loneliness, for such as he was easily bored with the games of the Shee; they overtaxed him with their endless need for joy, something that they could not create for themselves; and eventually they turned from him and they pursued their own sparse joys, which quickly soured into jaded amusements.

The king made a great Court for them to find amusement in and he set them all within, not caring about his creations now that their spark of hope had died and their hearts, cold as they were, frozen harder and harder as the years passed by until they resembles nothing so much as dried, rotten wood. Brittle, and easily shattered if touched. The king began to wander his lands endlessly then, searching for the cure to his loneliness. He traveled the Borderlands of his kingdom and he chanced upon two beautiful mares, walking in the grass; and so perfect were their forms, so simple their wishes and so bountiful their joys that he instantly fell in love with them.

One was midnight black, the other the color of new fallen snow. They were Shadow and Light. He immediately approached the mares, his power shining about him in a great and terrifying halo, and asked them to be his wives; the black one agreed hastily and with greed in her dark eyes; the white paused, her silver eyes unsure, but since her sister said yes, then she did as well.

The king brought the mares, who were beautiful women when they chose to be, to the Shee Court and for a time his subjects loved their Queens, both light and dark, in equal measure. Soon though, they favored the Shadow Mare, for it was her nature to be cruel, as it was theirs. The Light Mare often found solitude her companion, and though she loved her husband, she was filled with a great sorrow.

Years passed, centuries without number.

By the mares, that were called the Mares of the Moon, for the moon was their mother, half light, half shadow, the Fairy King had two sons. The first was dark as morning shadows; beautiful of face and cruel of deed; his mother was the dark mare. The second was fair like the night's first stars; and he was handsome and seemingly cold of heart; his mother was the white mare.

The first son was named Gailien, for the word was of his father's language, and meant 'Bold of Spirit'. The second was named Jareth, which came from his mother's tongue, which was born, like she, of the moon itself, and which meant too many things than could be counted, including: hope, the passing of time, the wind through the standing stones, a white fox running through frozen snow with a bloody paw, love never-ending, unexpected chance, and a winter owl with dark eyes.

The king poured his joy into his sons and his wives but as an eon passed his joy began to wane; for it is the curse of his kind to find sorrow in long years without end. He turned his hand then to create wonders in his lands under the hills.

Castles and vaulting wonders he made, both of light and of dark, but they did not fill him with joy. Great mazes that spanned leagues for him to lose himself in did not hold his attentions. Lower creatures, different from the Shee, with odd shapes and wild natures he made in hundreds and in thousands, both great and small; but soon he abandoned them to the lands. He made fair and foul in hope to find solace, but there was none for him, and still he wandered. Still he wanders.


End file.
